


I always know you.

by Anihan (Nakagami)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Fluff, Gen, Kitten!John, Kitten!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:32:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakagami/pseuds/Anihan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade reincarnates six years before either Sherlock or John. He's been yearning for their company for all of his short life, because what does a lonely six year old boy want more than two best friends? </p><p>For those friends to be kittens, of course. </p><p>Recognizing them on a soul-deep level is just a perk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I always know you.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [No sense of Harmony](https://archiveofourown.org/works/779184) by [Lestradesexwife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife). 



Lestrade was walking over a footbridge with his mother on their way to church when he noticed a box underneath by the stream's edge. From the way it moved and the sounds it made, he deduced that there were kittens inside the box. (The phrase FREE CATS written on the side helped.) The day was pleasantly warm and muggy, although it must be unpleasantly so for the kittens. He points out the box for his mum and says, "Look!" 

The word was supposed to encompass a full sentence. It doesn't. His mother pulls away and attempts to walk on.

"Mum!" he says, and this time she gets the message. He guides her to the side of the bridge with a hand under her elbow and he points haphazardly in the general direction of the box, an urgent sound emerging from his throat. 

She hums noncommitally. "Why don't you leave that box alone. Come on, we'll be late if you don't hurry."

He doesn't. It is almost as if he can't. He gets down on one knee and leans over the side of the bridge, looking into the box from above.

"I've never seen a blonde Scottish fold before," remarks Lestrade's Mum. She would call him Greggie but he hates the sound of that; even in his own head, he's always been a Lestrade. "Oh! Is that a Siamese?"

It was. Lestrade couldn't see it from his angle but the high-pitched mews were unmistakable. The Scottish fold made a mew equally high in octave and Lestrade knew he was lost to them: His heart was captured, enslaved, and without asking permission and not getting it besides, he ran to the base of the bridge and knelt in the mud by the box.

"Greggie!" Ah, that hated name. He ignored it. "Gregory Anthony Holmes, get your knees out of that river! You're ruining your Sunday clothes."

He hated his full name even more. Even at six his classmates had known his initials spelled 'GAH', and he ignored his mother even more fiercely for reminding him.

Turns out the box contained only two kittens, the orange-yellow Scottish fold and a tuxedo-patterned Siamese. The Scot was lying on the Siamese, pinning it bodily, and both were purring strong enough for Lestrade to feel it in his fingers on the edges of the box. He lifts one hand and pauses, staring.

He feels as if touching them will change something.

(Which it will: According to his mother's ire, the change will be in the possession of fleas.)

The kittens tussle a bit, and the white-chested black one ends up on top. Lestrade's hand finishes the downward motion and the cat's eyes meet and hold his own.

A jolt goes through them both at the contact. The boy gasps. Sherlock always did have the strangest of eyes. Lestrade's breath leaves him shakily and, in tacit reassurance, Sherlock places his head deliberately into the cup of Lestrade's palm. 

There, he purrs.

Now, with urgency, Lestrade buries the fingers of his other hand in John's scruff and gently coaxes a meeting of their gazes. The connection is, once again, instantaneous at the moment of physical contact and the ability to see through the windows to the other's soul.

There's nothing else to be said; nothing else to be done. He did it. Had done it. He'd found them. Lestrade is crying, although he doesn't know why, and he gathers the kittens to his chest despite his mother's shrieks and the kittens' protests in the form of claws digging into his skin.

"Greggie," his mother says, and she leaves it at that. 

"Please, Mum. _Please,_ " he says. 

There is a long moment in which the predominant sounds are sobs and mewling furballs. And then a long, resigned sigh. "Sure," Lestrade's Mum says. 

And now it is time to bring them all home.


End file.
